Below, the second installment of our new feature Booty Shorts: shorter-format CTGML stories, featuring escapades and adventures from people who have too many happy memories to choose a favorite. This one is also from Philia.

“Before I started dating my current boyfriend, ‘Devin,’ we were just casually hooking up, during this past summer. Now, both being in college, and home for the break, but still casual, for some reason we didn’t ever go to each other’s houses to hook up — which means that we had to be creative.” Yeah, who hooks up inside a house these days? How are you supposed to feel informal with a bunch of perpendicular-ass walls and ceilings boxing you in? I mean, you might as well be doing it in the Kennedy Center or something. (Seriously, though, that is one fuckin’ casual relationship. That guy Charles M. Blow is going to freak out when he hears this is what the kids are up to now.)

“One time, I was possibly a little too creative when I suggested we go to a playground a few minutes from my house. We seriously contemplated hooking up ON the actual playground (and okay I’ll admit it, I’ve done it before, on multiple playgrounds, and I’m sorry kids, I really am) but decided that that was a little too obvious, so we moved things over to a picnic table.”

“We we hot and heavy in the middle of things, me on top (of fucking course) when all the sudden two incredibly bright lights swept over our naked bodies (a sensation I should be getting used to by now I guess).”

“Uh… could you guys… clean yourselves up and… ugh… get up here?”

“So we did what anyone would do, namely, camo-rolled to the ground and scrambled to put our clothes on. Then we confronted the bright lights as we walked up the hill,” Philia trying with her facial expession and posture to convey the attitude “Excuse me officer, but I clearly was not doing anything wrong.”

“The officer talked to us for a while and took our IDs, but I think when he realized that we were both well over age, completely sober, and obviously just really stupid or really horny, he took pity on us, because he came back from his police car and said (in, again, one of my proudest moments),

{IRONIC POSTSCRIPT: By chance, the same officer pulled her over about a week and a half later for talking on a cell phone while driving. “Yes, he definitely recognized me although he didn’t say anything outright, and he gave me a way to get out of my ticket, so my only possible conclusion here is that I look damn good naked.”}

A few nights ago, I conducted one of my most exciting interviews yet, and this story is the result! It all begins in December 1988, when “Walter” was 13. In that month, he ended up in a psychiatric hospital because he was suffering from depression and possible suicidal tendencies. Also, he had “been dealing drugs for about six months.” “The straw that broke the camel’s back” was when he started carrying around a .45; “three guys tried to jack me, and I emptied a clip into their car.” That’s all it takes, I suppose. The powers that be placed him an institution that I don’t want to say the real name of, but will call Santa Fe Springs Psychiatric (after the one in this wonderful book by John Darnielle).

Depressed he may have been, but it seems as if he tolerated his time in there okay. Walter is an enterprising guy, and “when I got my first day pass, I got out and mailed myself half a sheet of acid, an ounce of pot in a Colgate pump dispenser bottle, and ten packs of cigarettes.” He made thousands of dollars by selling these items! Naturally, this capitalist activity attracted the attention of a young lady. “There was a girl named ‘Ginny Blade.’ She was seventeen.” She was bipolar, he thinks. “I was a virgin, and she found about about it.” Ordinarily, one would be all like “thirteen-year-old is a virgin, alert the media,” but in this case it’s sort of surprising, because drug dealers tend to get a lot of pussy.

Ginny Blade “decided to take my virginity.” She advised him of her decision. “I was very excited about having sex for the first time.” But “it wasn’t easy to fuck in SFS.” They talked over how they would accomplish it, and “devised a plan” — she came up with the outlines, and he “gave input.” A couple of days passed, and they put their plan into action.

First of all, you must understand that the floor they were on was shaped like a T, with two halls of boys’ rooms, one hall of girls’ rooms running perpendicular, and the nurses’ station in the middle. One the night in question, Ginny got things going by faking some sort of fit, or nervous breakdown, or whatever you want to call it: She would “went off, started screaming, punchin’ walls.” The standard procedure for episodes like this in SFS was that the person who was having a freakout out would get taken to the “quiet room” and left there overnight. Walter notes that the appellation “quiet room” was ironic, because the people that were put in there made “so much goddamn noise.” They would keep him awake at night — crucially for out story, his room was two doors down.

So they “called green on her, the staff bum-rushes her, restrains her,” and locked her in. After a few minutes she quieted down and the nurses stopped paying attention. Walter was able to leave his room and walk down the hallway without being observed. The quiet room did not lock from the outside, just from the inside — I suppose on the supposition that no one wanted to go in there. He opened the door and went in. He had brought a wad of toilet paper, which he positioned over the latch so it wouldn’t lock again when the door was closed. I was impressed at how they thought through all the angles, but “you get to know your way around a psych ward.”

So they took off their clothes. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, he was wearing Levi’s 501s, no underwear, and an Anthrax Among the Living t-shirt.

Anthrax t-shirt

As foreplay, he “sucked on my little 13-year-old cock” and he “licked on her vagina.” “I wasn’t quite hip to the clitoris, but I did the best I could.” It seemed to go okay. “Then the time came, the time of insertion. Me and Ginny Blad began to have sex. It was great, especially for a 13-year-old, depressed, possibly suicidal drug dealer. It lasted about a minute and a half.” In this part of the interview, Walter and and I proceeded to enjoy several minutes of hilarious banter about how long he might or might not be able to last at the present time: “I can double that now.”

When it was all over, he had to sneak out and go back to bed; she had to stay in there all night. The wad of toilet paper held up, so his escape was also successful. Walter adds that “how she wiped the jizz off” remains a mystery, because she had literally nothing in there with her. We speculated about that for a while, but I’ll spare you.

After this memorable incident, he remained in V-CAF for three more weeks. The two of them rarely spoke during that time, but they did exchange phone numbers when he left. We don’t know what happened to Ginny in later life, but wish her well. Walter is now a happy adult in a successful two-year relationship. As people will do once you get them started talking, he offered some wardrobe advice for guys. While he was wearing Levi’s in today’s anecdote, “now, I wear Wild Ass brand logger jeans. I had to ask an old logger, ‘What kind of jeans are those?’, and he looked at me like I was a faggot.”

Wild Ass

His other new thing that he’s been enjoying in recent years is to wear lots of bright colors, like an all-red outfit. “It got me laid, and I’d recommend it to any dude out there. Also, a vasectomy wouldn’t hurt.”

— I was out the other night, and a young woman told me that the lacy fingerless gloves she was wearing were a turn-on for men, and that she had been asked to keep them on during sex. I wanted to test this idea “in the field,” like a true pickup artist would do, so she agreed to let me borrow them for a few minutes. (I was drunk, so I didn’t think about the hygiene issue, although I probably should have.) I went and talked to an acquaintance of mine, and I gestured with my hands a lot, but he didn’t seem to want to have sex with me. The jury’s still out on the fingerless glove thing.

New reader “Audrey” is “a female undergrad at my very own Harvard of the south…. This particular sexcapade takes place on Halloween last semester.” She and her friends “were out and about frat-hopping and I was on the prowl, as I was just getting out of a booty call-based non-relationship, and the booty-caller was no good in bed. So I needed someone good in bed. Anyhow, I was getting progressively drunker through out the night and so was, well… everyone else.” I feel like the sentence “I was getting progressively drunker throughout the night” appears in, like, half the stories I post. It is starting to look awfully familiar.

“And so I was doing the nasty but obligatory grindy dance thing (with some guy I didn’t know), where you basically rub your ass against some guy’s junk to the beat of the music until his boner is poking your back.” Technically, that dance is known as “freaking.” It was the craze sweeping the nation around the time I was in high school, and the parents were all up in arms about how “freak dancing” was corrupting American’s innocent kids. (I seem to recall they were also worried that headbanging would cause you to get whiplash, especially if you had long hair. The 90’s were a more innocent time.) Freaking has indeed become so standard that no one’s even worried about it, but in retrospect, I think the adults were right. A person ought to have some time to decide whom they want to grind their crotch into. You shouldn’t just rush into a decision as soon as you show up at a party. It’s uncivilized.

Having an unfamiliar boner applied to your ass is distracting for most people, but it worked out okay for Audrey. It seemed to focus her mind: “I looked over and saw ‘Duncan.’ He and I were barely acquaintances but earlier that week we did have a fairly substantial conversation about hookah. Whatev, he’s isn’t really my type, he’s from New Jersey, and he’s too short. But as I looked over at Duncan (who was doing the same dance with some other girl) I decided I didn’t care how not my type he was, so I leaned over and ‘whispered’ (I actually had to shout, frats are in fact quite loud on Halloween), ‘uhm yeah so I dunno what’s going on with you and little missy, but I think we should hook up.'”

“This by the way is something that would never come out of my lips in a regular circumstance” (everyone always says that, too!), “so that’s why I was not so eager to repeat it when he dragged me outside cause he couldn’t hear me… so we just started making out.”

“I looked at him and said ‘you’re pretty good at this (kissing) and the rest is magnum-sized condom history.” Whoa, what a concept. You hear lots of variations on the phrase “the rest is history,” but this is the best one yet. The true story of Magnum-sized condoms and their wearers: the great unwritten chapter in the history of modernity. I mean if people will buy those books about The History of Baking Soda or whatever, imagine how well this could do. It would be the perfect stocking stuffer for everyone on your Christmas list. Why is it, anyway, that “history” always has to be about the most depressing topics? Why can’t we learn about shit we’re interested in? I mean, screw the Holocaust Museum, let’s erect a museum about… okay, you get the point.

Anyway, everything was fine “until the morning. As it turns out, Duncan lives in an all-boys dorm… and at 7 o’clock the next morning THE MOTHERFUCKING FIRE ALARM WENT OFF. So this would only be slightly embarrassing except that the clothes that got me so completely laid the night before were not exactly escapee friendly… I had dressed up as Tom Cruise. So all I had to my name were socks, my white granny panties, and a white oxford.” L-O-fuckin’-L. “So Duncan and I run out of his room (of course not fast enough to avoid clapping and hollering) and go hide. But as I said, I wasn’t wearing shoes, and my dorm was all the way across campus so then I had to call my friend to come pick me up.”

We Americans, evidently, are a patient people. After George W. Bush was elected, we sat through five years of epic mistakes and colossal blunders before we began punishing him with low approval ratings. After that, we had to endure two more years of tragic failures and staggering hubris before we could do anything about getting rid of him — only to embark upon the longest and most ridiculous electoral journey known to Man. We waited two hundred thirty-three years to inaugurate our first African-American president! LOL, are you sure that’s long enough? Maybe we should give the white guys a few more chances first, just to be sure.

But what if you’re like me, and you don’t really have this kind of patient disposition? You don’t want to sit through all the foreplay and coy banter, you want to get to the good stuff right away. For you, I’ve created BOOTY SHORTS, a new occasional feature on this website. BOOTY SHORTS will present CTGML anecdotes in a pithier and less digressive format. They’re quicker to read, quicker to write (!) — and perfect for those of you who’ve never written to me because you have just too darn many crazy hookup stories to choose one. Send ’em all in! Such a person is Philia, and Part I of her BOOTY SHORTS series is below.

“So…I’ve been counting and I’ve seen 8 padiddles since the last time we hung out.”
“Fuck, Dean, 8? I’m not even wearing 8 pieces of clothing.”

“This was a typical conversation between me and my friend ‘Dean’ a couple of summers ago. Dean was my ex-boyfriend’s friend and roommate, and so he resisted the urge to give in to the romantic chemistry between us for a long time. What a champ. Until, as it sometimes happens, the universe presented us with the perfect opportunity to get exactly where we wanted to go without really ‘going there’: padiddles.”

“It seems like the game of padiddles differs greatly regionally, so allow me to explain our version: A “padiddle” is a car with only one headlight. The way you play the game is, while driving, if you see a padiddle, you have to call it before the others in the car — while simultaneously hitting the ceiling. Whoever calls the padiddle first gets to pick which article of clothing the other person will take off. Innocent enough.” In the versions I’ve heard about, the one who spots the padiddle either punches her companion, or is owed a kiss, and furthermore, a car missing a back taillight is a “padunkle.” One hesitates to think what ass-centric sexual favors a padunkle sighting would enable one to demand.

In their version, “we took it a step farther: soon the game of ‘padiddles’ developed into the concept of ‘retroactive padiddles’ — that is, we could save our ‘padiddles’ until they added up to a significant number, like 8… and then the other person would be required to take off all of their clothing. Then we’d do: nothing. The majority of our summer was spent in the awkward space where nakedness, sexual tension, and the greatest level of self control I’ve ever seen in a man combine.”

“Then one night, while we were driving around town (padiddles adding up) Matt made a bold suggestion:”

“Hey, you know those abandoned cargo trains over by the theater?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“Well, in 20 years, I’ve never once seen them move. I’ve always wanted to go up there and explore them, but nobody has ever had the guts to do it with me.”

“And so, this is how we found ourselves, pressed against each other on the grate in between two of the cars, completely naked once again.”

“He leaned towards me, about to take the giant leap into intimacy that would have been our first kiss. Except…”

“All of the sudden, there was a flash of light. And by flash of light I mean a blinding, insanely bright light washing over the entirety of our naked bodies. And along with that blinding light there was a noise, a familiar one: the sound of a train.”

“A train. Coming straight at us. And along with the train, a conductor standing on the front, getting the perfect view of our glistening naked bodies, and secondarily the looks of utter horror that spread immediately across our faces.”

“ABANDONED TRAINS, DEAN?” I whisper-screamed as we sprinted between the tracks, throwing clothes at each other and attempting to dress ourselves as the train pulled into the station.

“Finally, somehow, we made it back to his car without being caught by the conductor or the cops, and with all our clothing and less of our dignity in hand.” All was well, until he realized his cell phone was missing.

“Wait… which train is it that’s moving?”
“Fuck.”
“That’s… that’s the train we were on, isn’t it?”
“Fuck.”

As the train passed by us we saw the haunting words scrawled across its side: “Connecticut to Pennsylvania.”

“My phone… my phone’s going to Pennsylvania.”
“We… WE could’ve been going to Pennsylvania.”
“We… we could’ve been going to Pennsylvania naked.”

“Anita” is in her early 20s and works as a vintage clothing seller. (She requested this pseudonym; it’s kind of weird for me because my mom is named Anita, but I was like “okay.”) I talked to her the other night, and she told me about a fateful series of events that took place about six months ago — on what I would call a “memorable night,” except that, as with many of the people I talk to, she only remembers about half of it.

Anita was single at the time, although casually dating several guys. (She’s very petite and small in stature! Does this ever happen to taller women?) Her ex-boyfriend had a friend that she was trying to be buddies with; she saw him around a lot or whatever, and she had suggested that they should hang out some time. She wasn’t trying to have it off with him, though; she just thought he was a fun guy.

The first time she suggested getting together, he didn’t have time. Then a few nights later, he was having people over to his apartment, and he called her to say “come over, let’s hang out.” She showed up wearing cowboy boots, skinny Levi’s jeans, and an 80s concert t-shirt.

Cowboy boots

She wouldn’t tell me what the 80’s concert was, apparently on the grounds that it would be too identifying (?). However, RANT OF THE DAY: Can people please shut the hell up about “80’s music”? When anyone uses this phrase, as far as I can tell, they seem to be talking about a particular style of glossy synthesizer pop music that was popular in that decade. Like, Wham! and Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Spandau Ballet and whatever the fuck. WARNING, CHALLENGING OPINION ALERT, that style of music totally sucks. It’s crappy and overproduced, plus the drums sound too “wet.” Time spent talking about “80’s music” is wasted time that could have been employed discussing an actual good band! Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds put out like ten records in the 80’s,so if you’re going to fetishize a decade, why don’t you talk about them? Talk about Tom Waits or something. Also, I hate the saxophone solo in “Careless Whispers.” Seriously, “80’s music” needs to suck my balls. Here are some concert t-shirts from the nineteen-eighties that I would condone wearing.

Flipper still rules

Butthole Surfers

Anita’s new friend “Gibby” had a bunch of his dudes over, watching episodes of The Office (American version). She brought over a “huge bottle of Gentleman Jack” and proceeded to drink it straight up. Gibby was drinking the whiskey too, I think. Time passed. At one point, Gibby went into the kitchen to get another drink, and she went with him. She kissed him and they started making out. She hadn’t ever been interested in him before, and attributes what happened to beer goggles (“Gentleman Jack spectacles”?).

They went back out into the living room and acted normal around Gibby’s friends, as one does. Then eventually, he decided to go to bed, and told her, “come in there when you’re ready.” So that’s what she did — she went into his bedroom, and they had sex. She says “it was a success.”

It is unclear what all the other dudes were doing while this was going on; maybe they had gone home. This part of the story is kind of weird. And what makes it even odder is, Anita revealed that it was still only 10 p.m. when they got done having sex! I was confused by this at first, because I couldn’t understand why Gibby went to bed so early. Now I think I know the reason, though. I think that “going to bed” was just a ploy he used to get laid. I know, right? Can you imagine? What kind of man would do such a thing? Shocking, but in any case, Anita had no urge to sleep over there. “I was just done, and then I left.”

She went home and changed clothes, into a floral sundress, with the same boots and no underwear.

Floral sundress

Forever 21 dress

She phoned up some good friends and they told her they were at a popular local billiard hall, “Tight Pocket Billiards.” She drove over, joined them, and started drinking again. It was there that she met “Charlie,” a friend of her friends who was partying with them. When she first spotted him, she mistook him for someone she had met before, so she was like “hey, you’re Kurt.” He was like “no,” but they struck up a conversation.

Shortly thereafter, she “asked him to take me home.” It struck me that this story was missing the part where the two folks go from shaking hands to going home to fuck. “What did you talk about?”, I asked. She said they didn’t talk much, and that it was basically a matter of “chemistry” between them. Furthermore, “when you have sex, you want more.”

And so it came to pass that they went to his apartment and had the “best sex ever.” Chemistry doesn’t lie! A surprising fact about this interview is that Charlie was there while I was conducting it (we were at a fashion party). He had been talking to someone else, but wandered over at this point. Anita kept emphasizing that it was “seriously, the best sex ever.” Charlie seemed more pleased than otherwise to be associated with an activity like this. He says that when they met, he was wearing a black Nirvana t-shirt, probably with jeans and Pumas.

Vintage shirt

Charlie didn’t call her back for two weeks after that, but she says they are now “best friends” who also have great sex. Looking at my archives, this has happened before, that someone had better luck when they went out for the second time in one night. I mentioned it to Georgiana, and she thinks it is because of, quote, “pheromones.” You leave the house all smeared with your own sex pheromones, and you attract someone whose body chemicals and hormones are all matched up with yours. Right?

Today’s post may be a bit less work-safe than usual, if your work objects to your having sexual words on your computer screen.

“Philia” is Ariana‘s friend, and it was Ariana who told her that “when you’re older you’ll understand, sometimes you have sex entirely for the anecdotal value.” That’s what she did last Halloween. “Let me preface this by saying that Halloween in New York City is absolutely terrifying. Not in a “spooky” kind of way,” but because of the drunken crowds. “It’s essentially like being at the casting call for extras in a low budget porno except plus body paint and masks.”

Last year she got dressed up “as ‘Sloth’ from the Seven Deadly Sins (yeah , totally the sexiest one, thanks friends).” She was wearing “a grey and white slip from Urban Outfitters, some fishnet tights, also Urban Outfitters, and depending on which point in the night you’re talking about, a bra and thong.”

UO Slip

UO Fishnets

She and the other Deadly Sins headed out to the Halloween Parade, a “massive orgy of intoxication and drag.” Philia is probably quite a few yours younger than me, but I’m totally feeling her cranky, obstreperous attitude in this part of the story: “After several minutes I decided that this just wasn’t going to work for me. As it turns out, I hate people…who knew?” She needed to escape for her friends’ “brewing drama,” and she had a clever backup plan. She had exchanged numbers with a dude named “Miles” at a bar in Union Square a couple of weeks previously. They met through mutual friends or something, and he was pretty hot, with brown hair and a runner’s body.

She phoned him up and “we met at the Fat Cat on Christopher Street in the West Village (an interesting crowd there — including a guy dressed as a scuba diver witha tank full of alcohol drinking it out of a scuba mouthpiece).” HEY, THAT IS A GREAT IDEA. Not just for Halloween, though.

“So Miles and I had a few drinks and eventually I decided to bring him back to my place (hey, it was Halloween, I was creating a memory, okay?).” How come chicks always use that as an excuse for sleeping with some guy? You don’t even need an excuse, but if you did, I think you should use the Andrew Marvell “To His Coy Mistress” “fear of death” rationale. “Oh, I had to sleep with him, I realized that all my quaint honor’s gonna end up turned to dust anyway! He was hot, and besides, all around me lie deserts of vast eternity.” The end result is the same, but it’s a classier line of argument. When they returned to the dorm, her roommate Ariana was there, and rather than languishing in time’s slow-chapp’d power, she was besporting herself with a young swain, “her usual frat-boy hookup.”

Sexiled! “I wasn’t about to let Halloween get me down, so we moved to the couch and proceeded to make out there.” Before things proceeded further, “my phone rang. I answered and it was my best friend (and also gayest friend, and also most wasted friend) “Marcus” on the other line.

“I’m on my way over. I’m here. I’m here.”

“Paul, you can’t just show up without telling me, I’ve got somebody here.”

“OHHH REALLYY?!” “Yes, really,” but “at this point Paul broke into tears. Seriously.”

“Paul, are you sad?” “MAYBE???”

“I sighed, but hey, we’d been best friends since we were 10, so I figured, bros before hos, as it were.”

“Okay Paul. If you’re sad of course you can come over.” Marcus wasn’t really on his way, though, let alone “here” — I suppose he was just being dramatic. Once Philia found this out, she decided to have sex with Miles while she waited. But “the sex did not go well… I gave him a blowjob first and he made me stop because he was going to come, so I was like ‘well… want to have sex?’ and he said ‘sure, but it might be embarrassingly short.'” Question: If he was going to do a bad job fucking her, what was the point of stopping the blowjob? Why didn’t he just come in her mouth? As long as I live, I will never understand people.

In Philia’s words, “I figured, how short can it be? We started and about 25 seconds in (yes literally), he was like ‘maybe i should just come now and then we can have sex later’… I said, innocently enough, ‘sure, i come easily {!} so just let me know when you’re going to and I’ll come with you’…. Sure enough that was enough to set him off so he yanked off the condom and came all over me.” HEH! How inconsiderate. Gentleman, I learned a tip about this from reading Ron Jeremy’s autobiography. In this wonderful book, Mr. Jeremy advises that if you feel you are going to ejaculat too early, there’s nothing wrong with taking a break by switching to a different type of sex act, getting up to go make a sandwich, or even running your dick under cold water! I’m sure the lady (or whatever) would appreciate it. There are so many reasons to read Ron Jeremy’s memoirs, that’s barely even scratching the surface.

RJ in younger, but no less hirsute, time

Their idea was to wait a while and have sex again, but then Marcus called to to say he was finally “here.” He didn’t have ID, “so I left Miles in bed and went downstairs to retrieve my wasted friend. As I came out of the elevators I saw my favorite guard, Demos, laughing hysterically and just pointing to the bathroom.”

“A few minutes later Marcus stumbled out. He was dressed as an Indian. No, not the Native American kind.”

“There he was, completely out of his mind wasted, dressed in only a vest, a scarf wrapped around his head, a pair of gypsy pants and with a big red dot on his forehead. Think Aladdin, but gayer and less politically correct.”

“We got into the elevator where we met up with Ariana, who was now drunk, stoned, and had what I’d like to refer to politely as ‘sex hair.’ Once we got into my room it became clear that Marcus wasn’t in fact that sad, and had instead arranged to hook up with one of our mutual friends… at my place. Yep, he’d invited someone over for himself…to my place.”

“And yes… he showed up.” About half an hour later “Sextus (dressed as ‘Pride’ — a.k.a. himself) and Titus (dressed as Donkey Kong) stumbled into my room.” She tried to warn them there was a guy sleeping in her bed. Then yet another drunken, hysterical friend, “Livia,” showed up. Philia got to work “pulling Livia’s clothes back on as she cried, while the boys talked and laughed at how drunk Miles was. I suddenly heard a loud gay shriek coming from the direction of my bedroom. It was Titus, running out, in his boxers:”

“PHILIA! THERE’S A MAN IN YOUR BED!!”

“Yeah… I know.”

“HE ASKED IF I WAS MARCUS AND I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO SO I JUST RAN!”

“Titus was pretty much under the impression that I had ‘set something up’ for Paul in my room… for the rest of the night.” This story is way crazier than I even noticed at first. Who gets suspected of being a procuress, in this day and age? Total Roman sex comedy vibe, which is why I’ve borrowed some of the names from A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. It doesn’t end there, either. She explained the situation, but “about an hour passes, and suddenly I hear yet another distinct gay shriek as MARCUS comes running from my room:”

“PHILIA! THERE’S A MAN IN YOUR BED!!!”

“He’d discovered this upon crawling into bed attempting to fall asleep. Yeah, my gay best friend crawled into bed with the guy I had just slept with. Awkward? Oh no, not at all.”

However awkward this situation was for Philia, “it could never be as embarrassing as Marcus’s walk of shame the next morning. The Gay Politically Incorrect Indian walking by actual Indians back to his actually Indian roommate and it dawning on him that he had spent his entire night prior to coming to my place hanging out with two actual Indians is really enough payback for me.”

Meanwhile, Philia’s hookup “was very forgiving of the fact that not one but two gay guys had prevented me from sleeping with him and then attempted to sleep with him themselves in the course of his one night stay.” She never saw him again, though. By the time their schedules matched up, “I’d gotten into a relationship with someone I’ve known since high school and had been seeing over the summer. We’ve been dating about two months now and it’s going great — Marcus hasn’t tried to sleep with him and the sex is amazing (and even lasts long enough for me to realize we’re having sex!).” Ouch, that is a harsh snap.

From now on, I will still be blogging here of course, but will also be blogging for this fine publication. You might want to check it out if you are interested in nerdy minutia about what’s going on in my town, but some of the posts will be clothing-related. For example, I have one up right now about how much I hate it when guys wear fedoras. Less relevantly, but more importantly, I also did one about my sadness that Ron Asheton of the Stooges died. Rest in peace, dude.

I will be back tomorrow-ish with an hilarious story about one young woman’s scandalous Halloween hookup. But right now, I think it’s important for us to keep an eye on interesting developments in the world of print magazines. And recently, one feature in particular caught my eye. No, it’s not the “Stylish & Sexy Guide” in the February issue of Lucky, although I did think about that. It purports to be a guide (for women) to the most “alluring,” sexy clothes — with outfits picked out by a bunch of straight chicks!* What kind of methodology is that? LOL, real scientific, Lucky. What would Charles Darwin say? Anyway, I wanted to find out if the lesbians and straight dudes among my readers really found these looks alluring, but they don’t put their articles online, so I can’t show you them. If you’ve seen the print edition, please share your thoughts.

(*Yes, I know women’s mags always do this, but it seemed particularly unlike Lucky; most of their fashion write-ups say things like “this caftan has a bohemian-ish, Morocco vibe that makes me feel like I’m drinking kombucha inside an embroidered tent!” They don’t much seem to care about sex appeal, in general.)

Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about is the Glamour magazine cover story titled “The #1 Thing That Makes Sex Very, Very Good!” This cover line caught my eye when I first started seeing it on the newsstands several weeks ago; but I just assumed it was about spanking, so I never bothered to open it.

??

Then yesterday, I was waiting in line at the grocery store, and I decided to pick up the magazine and make sure. I found out what The #1 Thing really is, and it’s — I was astounded — can you guess? — you’ll scarcely believe it — the #1 Thing is waiting to have sex. It’s a whole article about how, like, if you wait a long time to start screwing, your sex will end up being really great. They interviewed a bunch of couples who talk about what a good time they had, waiting to have sex. I about sprained something, I rolled my eyes so hard.

Anyway, I’m totally through with Glamour magazine now. What would be a good idea, I think, is to conduct some polling and find out what people are really up to {UPDATE, please don’t obsess about the correct way to conceptualize “waiting to have sex”; someday I will commission a much more scientific version of poll #1 that does away with all uncertainties} .